


Songs from the Basement

by hauntedmusings



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Requiem, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Animal Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedmusings/pseuds/hauntedmusings
Summary: "There is a monster in my basement, and at night, she sounds like my daughter."A mother's introduction to the masquerade is just as mind-shattering as it is for her daughter. From an outside perspective, she attempts to understand, and perhaps even help.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Songs from the Basement

There is a monster in my basement, and at night, she sounds like my daughter.

I do not know whether the flesh of that rank monster has consumed my daughter, or whether that thing, as it stands now _, is_ my daughter. I do not know anything - I do not even know if there is a difference. I only know to keep the door bolted, and to cover my ears, to pray, _pray_ like God is listening as night time creeps onwards. For, at night, the thing that has replaced my daughter _wails-_ it wails and scratches the walls and calls out to me in warbled, soft tones that could _almost_ be her, _almost,_ if I wasn't so certain my little girl was dead. The thing that ate my daughter cries like her, and at times I think her sobbing sounds so violent, I fear the door or the floorboards beneath me will break. It thumps and rattles and shakes, but I thank my prayers every day it does not snap. 

"Mother, _please_ ," She calls to me, night, after night, after night. It is a raspy voice that makes my skin itch, like a thousand insectoid clickings masquerading as human. "Mother, please, _please,_ I am _so hungry."_

My hands shake as they lay on the bolted door. I am only human. My daughter's distress is as reliable a trap as any siren call- yet, I do not believe she is lying. I believe her, because when I stand at that door, my body remembers that- for all its philosophy and all the poets and priests say of the human condition, it is actually an _animal_ . My instincts come alive, the hair on the back of my neck stands- I feel the blood flowing through my veins and I realize I must look like the rabbit, frozen on its spot, suddenly sure that there are teeth out there in the darkness waiting to sink into my flesh. My mind whirls in the vertigo of it all. It comes to me like a child waking up from a dream, this unfathomable reality. I am reminded of what I felt the first time I ever learned the world could be cruel, that things could be unsafe. A piece of delicate innocence breaks off of you, before you even have time to appreciate or even notice what that innocence gave you. The church will try and tell you that we did not evolve, that humans are an ascended version of life, gifted onto this planet by God- that we are more than the products of dirt and apes, more than scraping by in the evolutionary race by being more predatory than our predators. To this, I say, the church has never felt what it was to stand on the opposite side of that locked door, and simply _know_ , just _know_ what it was to be a piece of meat, that the other side of that door is a maw meant to devour your animal hide whole. 

There was a day when I realized I could not take it. Every night, she scratched and clawed and _wailed_ to me of her hunger. I can not describe the way she said that word, ‘hunger’- the absolute agony in her voice. She spoke of hunger like the world was about to break. Perhaps it was- every lifeform there ever was is a slave to starvation. The only thing I could understand about the horror of that monster is that it _ate_. It ate my daughter, and now it was eating away at me. We are more united in our need to devour than any sense or soul- It is no wonder we devour the flesh and blood of Christ in our rituals. If God appeared to us as anything, I don’t think it’s sacrilege to say he would be a slab of meat. When not ravenous, that impossible voice sang songs- songs only my daughter would know, songs I sang to put a baby girl to sleep- tune all but the same, but bastardized by the creature's voice, with an edge like dragging a knife over a chalkboard. I could not make myself food. I could not sleep. I live alone- perhaps if I had someone to share this nauseating torment with, it would not be so maddening. But, sleep deprived, and unwilling to allow myself to be fed to the same teeth that claimed my daughter, I found myself stumbling into the streets of Bristol with a rope, and a knife, and a bit of food. 

Rabbits had been in my neighborhood for as long as I could remember, and people complained about the raccoons. My job- not the apothecary duties, but the more discreet work as an abortionist- had introduced me to many people who couldn't make ends meet, and one such encounter put me in conversation with a young woman who had gone through a period of life where it became necessary to cook and eat the wildlife. She had told me her methods - and in that sleep drunk state, with the warbled songs of that monster pretending to be my daughter in my head… 

I will spare you the details. No one wants to hear of the butchery I sloppily accomplished. I truly am sorry, for my neighbors and their pets- but I do not regret my actions. I had to do it at night, as not to be seen - but to truly make use of the meat, I would have to wait until the sunrise. I did not know much about the monster in my basement - I hardly knew whether or not it slept, or breathed, or even what it ate except me. What I had seen of its form was quick- a sunken in creature with a hole instead of a face, a matted mess of boils and teeth in the approximate, haunting yet mocking shape of a girl I once raised - is a horror that flashed before my eyes, a horror than ran towards me with an inhuman hunger I barely avoided before making it to the other side of the door. I still can not process it. The sight of it is burned into me. My mind plays it on repeat until I can understand it, and I doubt understanding will ever truly come. Even my sleep is not safe from that haunting, terrible image. And yet, that image was all but a moment - I had not stared into that mocking face for long. I still did not understand the monster in my basement- but I knew it was quiet during the day, and all creatures- natural or not- must sleep. 

I unbolted the door. Then, slowly, I opened it. My first move was to toss the bleeding meat inside, and shut it just as quick. The metal bolt was loud as I forced it back into place, certain that at any moment the enraged beast would bolt and claim its freedom. Then, I waited. I listened - but I heard nothing. As slowly as I could, and with my hands _shaking_ in a manner that rattled the metal bolt… I opened the door. I opened it because I _had_ to, to _see,_ really _see_ what had happened to my daughter. I told myself it would be quick, that it was dangerous to linger and that my sentimentality would surely kill me - 

I stared longer than I thought I would. 

It was splayed out over the ground, curled up and impossibly still. I- couldn't help but think it suddenly pathetic, like a wounded animal, helpless and small. It was so still, it could have been dead - I observed no breathing, no movement, nothing that marked it as sleeping. Had I been too late? Had it died last night? Or does it die every morning, only to arise every night, as fresh and hungry as before? Perhaps something about my grotesque actions the night before numbed me. Perhaps my sentimentality- the thing I already feared had too strong a grip on me- had actually snapped to pieces after nights of hearing her voice. However, as I stared at this animal, it struck me that- for all my fear of it, just how poor of a hunter this thing must actually _be_ . A shambling, absurd thing like that - it could _never_ hide, much less in broad daylight. Perhaps that's why it stuck to the night, a thing like this could only stand a chance at a time no one might _see_ it - but even then, this thing's strength was not enough to break the oak door that had granted me so much safety. It's possible it was malnourished, but - ... 

I decided I didn't want to take any chances. I had looked long enough - dangerously long, I would have thought. Once I had my look, that was that- and I closed the door, and bolted it once more. That night was quiet - but not quiet like death. Quiet, as in complacent. When the sun fell, and the moon arose, I heard the telltale scuttlings of life- and the wet devouring of the flesh I had left the creature. ‘Ravenous’ is the word I keep coming back to- beastlike in it’s devouring. But, no scratching. No crying. Only footsteps, and soft scuttling, and once- singing. 

It felt strange, to find relief in that. For all the horror this thing had done to my daughter's voice - I had no one else to share that song with. After sleepless nights of nonstop horror, one night of peace felt like a godsend. It wasn't total peace - I still heard the door creak when she leaned against it, I still heard quiet warbly voices. But we were both fulfilled, in a way - the creature had its meal, and I had my peace. The strangest part was - it was like we both _knew._ I doubted this thing possessed complex thought, but- I couldn’t deny an understanding between us. We never spoke, but it was as if I had just signed a contract to the beast in my basement. I would be the hunter where this monster could not. I would be its silent stalker. It's a strange thing to feed the lion in my basement, in hopes it would not kill me- but I will admit to a sort of Stockholm serenity to it. And as a reward, I got to live, and I got to hear my daughter sing. 


End file.
